Mandy in the Middle
by KageKitsune XXX
Summary: Ian and Mickey break up for only the millionth time. Gallavich
1. Mandy in the Middle

"Boilermaker, keep them coming."

Mandy raised an eyebrow as she slid the beer and shot across to a fuming Ian. It was five in the afternoon on a Thursday, and Ian was in her bar slamming back boilermakers like nobody's business. There could only really be one explanation.

"What did my shithead brother do this time?"

To his credit, Ian managed to hold out for a couple minutes before completely unloading, "it's like pulling teeth with him, Mandy! Everything is a problem…everything! I feel like that guy trying to push that fucking rock uphill and it just keeps rolling down the other side. It's a goddamned employee appreciation picnic. You'd think I was asking him to shake his ass on some pride float or whatever!"

Now there's an image Mandy could have done without. She stayed silent, wiping glasses and watching Ian as he continued to flush as red as his hair.

"You know what he said to me? 'I told you I don't do fucking picnics, Gallagher,' like I'm asking him to off a kid. A dumbass picnic—you eat a bunch of shit, you make nice and then you go the fuck home."

Mandy chewed her lip thoughtfully as Ian emptied his glass. Judging by how her best friend was acting, this argument sounded like it had been one of their pricklier ones. "So, how did it end up then?"

"End up?" Ian sputtered as he tapped his glass against the countertop, "oh, we're 'done, done, done' according to him, and fuck him, we are! I'm tired of his shit."

"Oh, sweet Jesus," Mandy hid her eye-roll and suppressed a groan, because what this meant was that she was going to go home to her apartment to find an unhappy Mickey on her couch, helping himself to her beer, food and her good stash of weed. There was no one she loved more than her brother and Ian, but dear lord they were exhausting. Ian and Mickey's relationship brought fresh meaning to the notion of "going hard," and she couldn't help but marvel at their energy and endurance for all their relationship drama. Her brief brush with that kind of intensity had nearly sent her around the deep end over Lip, so for Mickey and Ian to tough out four years of fighting and fucking and fake break-ups, filled her with admiration and a twinge of jealousy.

"I mean, am I wrong here?"

Mandy focused on carefully refilling Ian's beer and avoiding his eyes for a bit, "well…" Those said eyes snapped to hers and his expression changed to incredulous, "what Mandy?"

"It's just that sometimes you can be a little…" pushy, demanding, relentless, bossy "forceful, when you want something."

"You're taking his side?!"

"I'm not taking his side, Ian," Mandy waved her arms during her best to placate him, "it's just that, I know you want to hit all these milestones and have all these moments with Mickey and, well, we're Milkoviches, the emotional crap takes us a little bit longer than with most people."

She cringed as he exploded a bit. "Emotional crap? It's a goddamn picnic!"

Mandy could only sigh as Ian missed her point. It's not like she didn't get it—she totally did. When you grew up the way they did, the way Ian did, grasping for every little thing you need to live, it can't help but shape the way you do things. Few good things, if any at all, just fell into your lap in the Southside. Ian fought for everything he wanted and needed, and he couldn't help but fight for Mickey too, even when he didn't need to. Every wall Mickey put up, Ian would throw himself against it, shoulders first until they came crashing down, which they always inevitably did. But Mandy knew as well as anyone, sometimes you need to leave a wall or two standing for just a little while longer.

Ian simply frowned into his beer, "so what, you're Dr. Phil now?"

"Hey, I've taken two psych courses and I've been a bartender in both the Southside and New York. I'm the closest thing to an expert you're gonna get for free, buddy," Mandy snapped back, getting irritated with his irritation. Before they could snip at each other some more, Mandy's cell phone buzzed angrily. She checked the message, knowing full well who the sender would be already.

**"Ay, fuckhead with u?"**

Mandy rolled her eyes as Ian sat up straight, trying to see who was texting her. She ignored his blatant fishing and responded to her brother,**"yeah, what?"**

**"He's supposed to take his meds around 8. No hard stuff no matter what he says…makes him loopy as fuck."**

Mandy sighed and nodded at the message while Ian eyed her suspiciously. She pocketed the phone and, preferring to err on the side of caution, went about downgrading Ian's boilermakers to plain beer. Before Ian could even notice, they were interrupted by Peter, Mandy's fellow bartender, arriving for the start of his shift. He greeted Mandy before turning a megawatt smile on Ian, "hey."

Ian grunted in response and Mandy's eyes were getting tired of rolling heavenward. Pete's crush on Ian was not only so massive it had gravitational pull, but was embarrassingly, blatantly obvious. Mandy was tired of telling him that he was barking up the wrong tree.

"What's new," Peter persisted, "everything okay with you? Where's Mickey?"

"The fuck should I know where Mickey is? I'm not his keeper, I'm not his boyfriend, I'm not anything as far as Mickey is concerned," Ian complained bitterly, completely oblivious to Peter's gobsmacked expression.

"You guys broke up?! When did this happen?!"

Mandy needed to lie down—she simply couldn't with these idiots. It occurred to her, though, that Mickey and Ian's last pseudo-breakup was before Peter arrived on the scene, so this elaborate mating ritual of the Gallaghers and Milkoviches was new to him. She collared Pete and dragged him off to the corner, leaving Ian brooding into his glass.

"What?" Pete asked innocently.

"No, just no."

"What am I doing?"

"Never mind the sad fact that you're seriously willing to pursue the rebound angle, Pete, just leave Ian alone."

"But I didn't even-"

Mandy put up a silencing hand, having none of it, "listen, they have danced this dance before. They've danced it a million times. They're never done. They'll cool down, slink back to each other in a few days, then rinse and repeat. Do not go down this road, it is a dangerous road. Ian will use you as Mickey-bait and you won't even get so much as a hand job out of it."

Once upon a time it would have been a possibility, when they were even dumber than they were now, and Mickey was fighting the "exclusive" label tooth and nail, despite not sleeping with anyone else and expecting the same from Ian. The redhead had let his frustration known by having Mickey walk in on him balls deep in some random he'd picked up at a bar.

That was one of the few times Mandy had actually been worried about the fledging relationship, because the fall-out had been bad, worse than Ian had anticipated. Yes, Mickey had been jealous and the poor stranger had paid for it, but it had taken Ian weeks after that to get Mickey to look at him right. Still, the overall plan had worked, but it scared Ian enough into never going that far again.

"Look, he's a really nice guy…" Pete warmed into presenting his case. Again, Mandy shut it down immediately.

"He's the absolute sweetest, but he will also crack open your chest, rip out your still beating heart and present it to my brother in some kind of weird form of foreplay. Seriously, do not go down this road, Pete." She ignored his protests to check her vibrating phone again.

**"Meds 8. No fucking around."**

**"I got it the last 10 times douchebag, eat a dick."**

* * *

Just as Mandy expected, her brother was sprawled on her couch, eating, drinking and smoking her out of house and home. She slapped the back of his head, ignored his garbled curses and flopped down next to him.

"Fuckhead take his pills?"

"And hello to you too, brother," Mandy grumped as she stole his beer, "he did, he's fine. He went home sad but on the level."

Mickey grunted in acknowledgement and slumped further into the couch, clearly determined not to address the elephant in the room. Ian was so much easier. After a few minutes of sullen silence, Mandy finally elbowed her brother.

"So…you guys on a little break?"

"No, we are not taking a break. I'm done, done, done…**done**!"

"Oh shit, it's the rare and coveted quadruple "done," ladies and gentlemen. Shit's getting real now," Mandy laughed as her brother glowered at her.

"Fuck you," he muttered grumpily before flaring up, "and fuck him and his fucking chin. Nothing's ever enough for that asshole. It's not even inches and miles with him, it's more like marathons or some shit. He's not going to be happy until I'm shaking my ass in booty shorts in some goddamn queer rights parade."

"Ah for the love of—I just got that image out of my head and your dumb ass had to bring it back."

"What the hell am I supposed to do at a goddamn company picnic? I told him I don't do that shit. I can't…" Mickey added, deflating more and more into exhaustion as he spoke, "can you even imagine how that shit would go down? Nothing but an impending disaster."

"You shouldn't assume. Maybe they'll have a fight club going," Mandy teased while her brother snorted rudely, "he just wants to show you off a bit, Mickey," Mandy said gently as she laid her head on her brother's shoulder and stroked his arm soothingly, "it's what people do—the well adjusted ones—they show off the people they're in love with. It's a thing."

"Yeah, well, I ain't no prize," Mickey spoke softly enough for her to almost miss it and Mandy's heart squeezed painfully at that, because what could she say? It's not like she didn't get it, she did. When you were raised the way they were, the way she and Mickey had been, you get to thinking that you're not worthy of a lot. She could always see the way Mickey looked at Ian in those unguarded moments, like he hung the moon or he was something miraculous, which makes sense, because shit, she used to look at him the same way, she probably still does.

Rationally, Mandy knew the Gallaghers weren't less filth than they were, maybe even Mickey knows that on some level. It doesn't mean they were able to accept it. Lip and Ian weren't like them. They adapted to the muck but they didn't belong in it like the Milkovich kids did and when Ian and Lip finally escaped, they came out clean. Mickey and Mandy tracked Southside dirt everywhere they went.

For Mickey, being with Ian was tantamount to stealing heaven. It didn't belong to him, he knew he shouldn't have it, but he'd cling to it quietly with unclean fingers anyway. Mandy understood Ian's frustration, but she felt her brother's, she lived it. All Mickey wanted to do was love Ian quietly while he waited for the other shoe to drop. He wanted to try and stay below the radar, hoping no one caught on to his audacity and corrected his grievous sin. Every Milkovich knows you never draw attention to your crimes.

"How much you think a studio is in this piece of shit?"

"Oh no, your ass is going back to Brooklyn. It's bad enough we're in the same city, you're not coming to my borough."

"You followed us out here, bitch, and the borough was plenty big enough when you were commandeering our couch for-fucking-ever."

"I paid for it. My brain is nothing but scar tissue thanks to you two homos," Mandy pinched him hard and quickly crossed her arms over her breasts before Mickey could perform his go-to move for fighting her. They settled down after a bit and sat in silence for a few minutes, "you two deserve each other," Mandy said sincerely, because he might not know it yet, but her brother was one of the good ones—one of the best of them—and he deserved every good thing this crappy world could offer. Mickey only sniffed in response and sunk back into silence. Maybe one day he'd believe that, but not today.

* * *

It was Saturday afternoon when Ian walked in to find Mickey sprawled on their couch. He paused for a bit, felt his body relax in a way it couldn't quite manage those past couple of days. He came and stood next to the couch and watched Mickey smoking silently for a minute. Blue eyes flicked over briefly at him before looking away quickly, the way they always did when Mickey was caught in an uncomfortable or unfamiliar situation.

"Thought you were moving in with your sister," Ian said lightly.

"Bitch is on the rag or something, damn near ripped my head off over some shit," Mickey lit up another cigarette and kept his eyes on the TV while he told blatant lies about his sister, "plus all my shit is here, you wanna see the back of me so bad, you move then."

Ian waited a while longer, tapping the arm of the couch anxiously as he tried to figure out how best to play this so Mickey wasn't out the door again at the first word. He sighed and gave up; you could never form a proper game plan with Mickey Milkovich in mind. He sat abruptly on the coffee table in front of his boyfriend; using his longer legs to box Mickey's in, crowding him a little. He knew what Mandy said about personal space and pushing too hard, and he tried, but fuck if he could help himself sometimes. He just wanted to breathe Mickey in all the time and the impulse was the hardest thing ever to control. At least Mickey wasn't flinching away anymore or shoving him off like he used to. Even now as Ian leaned forward a little to glare him down, Mickey didn't pull back. He refused to give Ian his full attention; just giving quick glances at him occasionally as the adrenaline start to flow through them both.

"Why you gotta make a federal case out of everything, Mickey?"

"Why you gotta try to make everything into a fucking Hallmark card moment?" Mickey shot back, eyebrows arched.

"It's a fucking picnic!"

"That I told you I don't want to go to. You got rocks in your ears or something, Gallagher?"

"Why? Seriously, what is the problem?" Ian asked exasperatedly as his boyfriend rolled his eyes, "I talk about you all the time, but no one from my job has ever seen you. They're starting to think I made you up."

"Stop running your fucking mouth then," Mickey grumbled, "Jesus, you're one of those people aren't you? The ones whose relationships aren't real or valid until they change their fucking status on Facebook and fuck all can see it."

"I'm starting to think I made you up," Ian continued undeterred, "I just want you there, Mickey, it helps me know you're in this with me.

Mickey smacked his head a few times on the back of the couch, "Ugh, this needy bitch right here." He suddenly sat up straight and leveled his gaze at the redhead, "you want to know if I'm in this? Me, who has crawled into every gutter in Southside looking for you when you were strung out of your mind at one point or another? Me, who has gotten shot and beaten so many times over your narrow ass, I should be on disability? Who ran away with you so we could 'finally start our lives'?"

By now, Ian had a sneaking he was going to lose this particular argument, but any thoughts of capitulating would have to wait. Mickey was already warmed up and on a roll.

"Who worked two legit jobs to help you through school so that you can get in with those snobby douchebags you work for? Whose name is next to yours on the goddamned lease? None of that is enough to reassure you that I am invested, huh? Nooo, apparently I should have skipped all that shit and just waited to go to a fucking corporate picnic!"

Mickey flopped back against the couch and a heavy silence descended quickly. Ian stared at the floor morosely while drawing abstract, vaguely conciliatory figures onto Mickey's jean-clad thighs. He didn't bat Ian's hands away, though, just sat staring at the ceiling as he burnt through another cigarette.

"I don't want to be too intense, Mick, I'm trying. It's just…" Ian kept his eyes trained on Mickey's knee, "I want you everywhere. There's no part of my life that I want to look across and not find you there. I know I'm crazy sometimes" Ian's voice dropped to a whisper, "I don't want to be crazy."

"Shit, no, Ian, it's not crazy," Mickey dragged a hand through his hair and sighed heavily, "I want that too, it's just…" He struggled to find the words as his thigh warmed beneath Ian's hand, because only Ian could do that, warm him with a touch no matter what new thing was threatening to swallow him. "How does that even work? I can't function around your people. What the hell am I supposed to do? Just roll up to the park with my tats and my mile-long rap sheet and discuss the housing market or whatever the fuck you all talk about. You'll be the first person to get pissed when I haul off and punch somebody when they start treating me like I'm..." Mickey trailed off and went back to avoiding eye-contact, but Ian was already furrowing his brow.

"Treating you like you're what?" Ian asked sharply. "Like you're what, Mickey?"

Like he was garbage, because there was no hiding that—not for long anyway. No matter how often you showered, or changed your clothes or where you moved, there was no disguising it. It soaked into your bones and became a part of you until it oozed back out your pores and belched out violently at the worst possible times. Most people could recognize it immediately, and weren't afraid to show your shame to the world. As far as Mickey was concerned, the more people to see them together, the more people to speed Ian onto the inevitable realization that he could and should do better.

It was one of those rare moments for Ian when every thought was clearly stamped over Mickey's face and in his blue eyes before he shuttered them and slid his poker face back on. Ian stared at him wordlessly, vacillating between anger and incredulity. He finally gave into laughter, completely surprising Mickey.

"Jesus Mickey, you're such a fucking idiot."

"Ay, who the fuck you think you're calling a-" Mickey's words were cut off my Ian's lips crashing into his, while the redhead deftly unzipped his jeans and palmed him through his boxers. "Fuck Gallagher," Mickey hissed as Ian moved to kiss and bite along his jawline while continuing to stroke him to full hardness.

"Punch anyone dumb enough to think you're trash," Ian breathed into Mickey's neck as the brunet bucked underneath him, "then I'll help you kick the shit out of him—out of all of them if we have to."

Mickey sighed, fully defeated as Ian settled on his knees and yanked off the brunet's jeans and boxers. "Nobody puts Mickey in a corner."

Mickey let out a bark of laughter while Ian grinned up at him, "Christ you're lame sometimes, firecrotch."

Ian didn't argue, just plunged his mouth down the length of Mickey's cock with enough force and teeth to send Mickey spiraling towards the edge. He relaxed his throat and sucked him down, quickly falling into a steady rhythm that had Mickey gasping for air above him. Ian growled a warning when tattooed fingers twisted into hair and Mickey's pale hips shot up to push himself deeper into Ian's mouth. Ian grasped his boyfriend's hips and held him firm against the couch, quickening his pace as Mickey moaned his encouragement. Ian could feel how close Mickey was to release, heard his voice becoming more strangled as the redhead worked to get him off. Ian used his tongue to trace a familiar, thick vein along the underside of Mickey's cock before pulling back and switching to a slow hand job before the man could achieve his happy ending.

"The fuuuck, " Mickey complained as he thrust into Ian's fist, "at least do that faster, fuckhead."

"Take it back first," Ian tightened his grip and pumped achingly slowly.

"What…huh?" Mickey breathed, confused and half gone.

"You said we were done, take it back."

"Are you fucking kidding me right now? Gallagher!"

"I hate it when you say that shit," Ian leaned down and sucked lightly on the head of Mickey's dick before pulling back teasingly, "freaks me out sometimes, you don't even know…"

It wasn't something Mickey said frequently, and it usually came at the height of the worse arguments. Mandy made fun of it, but it never failed to put the fear of God into Ian. It put him in mind of death threats and juvie and Mickey disappearing beyond his reach for only God knows how long.

"Take it back, Mickey," another slow pump, another soft lick across the dripping slit of Mickey's cock.

"Shit, fuck, Ian, you know I never mean that shit, baby."

Beneath Mickey, green eyes now glowed because he had just said a bunch of the most magical words all in a row. Ian stopped teasing and immediately deep-throated him, shoving one hand up Mickey's shirt to pinch and stroke at the brunet's nipple before shoving three fingers into Mickey's open mouth.

He coated Ian's fingers eagerly and as best he could, already anticipating the slow, sweet burn of them entering into him. He nearly bit down on them when his orgasm hit, leaving Ian coughing a bit as he pulled away.

"Thanks for the warning, jerk," Ian grumbled as he worked one finger deep into Mickey, "I don't recall saying you could come."

"Don't recall you saying that I couldn't," Mickey sighed blissfully, as a second finger joined the first in loosening him.

"Ass."

"Was that an insult or a request, firecrotch?"

Ian smirked as he gripped behind Mickey's knees and yanked until the man was also on his knees before him. Ian pushed at Mickey's shirt and his boyfriend quickly acquiesced by yanking it off and tossing it over the back of the couch. Ian showed his appreciation by leaning forward to kiss as much of Mickey's exposed skin as possible while slowly kneading his ass.

"You gonna play all night or you wanna get on me?" Mickey huffed impatiently. He could feel the smug bastard smiling into his back, before pulling away and slowly undoing his own zipper. It was deeply embarrassing to Mickey just how much the sound turned him on.

"Don't worry, love, I'll be gentle."

"I will kick your fucking ass, if you don't—gah!" Mickey buried his face in the cushions as Ian pushed into him. Before long, there was one hand fisted into his hair, while the other gripped his hips as his ginger slammed into him. Mickey swore Ian Gallagher was going to be the death of him one day.

* * *

Mandy hadn't heard so much as a peep out of her brother or her best friend since Mickey snapped and went back home to Ian Saturday morning. This could only mean one of two things: they had either murdered each other in one of the bloodiest crime scenes ever, so they were fucking like they'd just returned from a war, instead of sitting around brooding over for each other for the lesser part of two days. It doesn't take a betting woman to figure out which option was far more likely. Seriously, those two idiots were going to be the death of her.

* * *

Ian woke up some time after midnight to find Mickey stretched out next to him, sheets kicked off, bare ass bathed in the moonlight. It was a sight beautiful enough to move a man to tears. Ian ran a hand down the length of Mickey's body, admiring his handiwork of hickeys and the bruises standing in contrast against the pale hips. Mickey shivered as Ian trailed a finger down his spine and whispered a muffled "Gallagher" into his pillow. Ian grinned happily and moved to kiss a slow trail down Mickey's back, reaching down to palm and massage between his lover's legs. Mickey moaned and shuddered again, hovering somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. When Ian finally reached down to Mick's ass, he couldn't resist biting softly into a white cheek. He slid down the bed, positioning himself between Mickey's open legs and slowly spread him apart. The firm lick across Mickey's opening woke him right the hell up.

"Jesus," Mickey groaned heavily into his bunched up pillow as Ian went to work. He lifted his head briefly to yell back at Ian, "you know Mandy's starting to think we fight half the time just to make up like this."

Ian hummed in response as he pushed his tongue in deeper into Mickey, sending the brunet into spasms. "Yeah," Mickey panted, raising his hips so he could thrust back against Ian's face and touch himself, "same thing I said."

* * *

It was late morning before Ian finally managed to stumble out of their bedroom, half-starved and dehydrated. He was halfway to the kitchen when his doorbell rang. Sighing heavily, he trudged over to the door and yanked it open. He had been expecting Jehovah Witnesses or something, but Ian was wholly unprepared for the sight of Peter, the friendly bartender, standing there with chocolates and roses no less, grinning like a goddamned simpleton.

"What the hell?"

"Hi," Pete said, way too cheerfully for a Sunday morning, "you said I could come by today, maybe?" Pete's smile wavered as Ian continued to stare at him dumbfounded. "Too early?"

"I told you to come by?" Ian asked incredulously. Jesus, how drunk and out of it had he been? Mandy was right, he really needed to quit this baiting shit. He darted a panicked look towards the closed bedroom door before dropping his voice to a harsh whisper. "Okay, l know I may have inadvertently given you the wrong impression, and I am really sorry about that. But you got to get the hell out of here."

Pete blinked at him, completely confused, "it's the flowers, right? Too much?"

Before Ian could strangle Pete with his own damned flowers, the bedroom door swung open and time froze as Mickey wandered out, rubbing at his eyes tiredly.

"Damn, firecrotch, what's taking so lo-" Mickey trailed off, coming to a stop beside Ian as he took in the scene before him.

"You're back already?" Dead man walking asked dumbly before turning to a petrified Ian, "he's back already?!"

Mickey looked from Pete, to the gifts, to Ian and back again. He repeated this action a few times, before scratching his nose with his thumb—the Mickey signal for an impending ass-kicking. "Yeah, okay," Mickey muttered before wandering over to one of the corner tables in the living room.

"Run!" Ian whispered urgently.

Peter, for his part, was far too interested in what Mickey was doing to heed Ian. He watched fascinated as Mickey fished through the drawer and then casually, but measuredly slipped on a set of brass knuckles. This was precisely the point at which poor Pete pissed himself. He dropped the flowers and the candy and was off like a rocket down the passageway.

"Don't you run from me, fucker!" Mickey was barreling past a stammering Ian and charging after Pete like a Pamplona bull. He caught him on the landing of the second flight of stairs, because of course he did. Pete's head start and longer legs were nothing on Southside ex-con speed, and even barefoot, Mickey was as fast as the worst of them. Fortunately, Ian was fast too and Pete at least had the good sense to curl into the fetal position after he went down from Mickey decking him.

Ian wrapped his arms around the miniature typhoon and lifted him bodily off Pete and carried him struggling back up the stairs. Unable to hit anymore, Mickey unleashed a truly impressive litany of curses at the crumpled bartender, including a few Russian ones. If Svetlana had taught him anything, it was that Russian was a magnificent language with which to cuss someone out.

They made it back to their floor before Mickey successfully managed to free himself and stomp off to their apartment. Ian followed meekly and watched quietly as his boyfriend sent the abandoned flowers flying down the other end of the hallway with a kick. Mickey was already in the bedroom by the time Ian cautiously ventured into the apartment.

"And you better not leave those fucking chocolates out there, fuckhead!"

Ian quickly scampered back into the hallway and retrieved them, shooting apologetic smiles to the few curious heads that poked out to see what all the yelling was about. It was nothing short of a miracle that they hadn't been evicted yet.

* * *

With them, there were many different types of sex: happy sex, angry sex, make-up sex, the usual sort. That day they explored a new one: the "I can't believe you're still pulling this shit and putting me through an emotional wringer" type, of which Ian was currently on the receiving end.

"I cannot believe you're still pulling this bullshit," Mickey hissed, twisting his hands into the sheets on either side of Ian's head, as he rode his idiot boyfriend furiously. Ian gripped onto his hips and bucked under him, eyes rolling back in his head after his vision went searing white.

"Wasn't going to…really wasn't; just you," Ian gibbered and angled his hips to go after Mickey's prostate, temporarily derailing the brunet's whole rant.

"I swear to God, Ian, the next time you do this, I will kill you both," Mickey ground out. Coherent thought was dissipating fast. "Both…dead!"

"Fair, so fair," Ian moaned helplessly beneath the onslaught, "holy hell I love you. I love you so much, Mickey."

"Fucking right you love me!" Mickey snarled, losing his last bit of control along with his righteous indignation, "you gonna just lay there and take it all night, or you gonna do something, you lazy fuck?"

Ian wrapped an arm around Mickey's waist and flipped them over in a fluid motion, pounding away relentlessly even as Mickey hauled him down into a kiss and burned the air clean out of him. Seriously, Mickey Milkovich was going to be the death of him.

* * *

Two days, those two idiots had fallen completely off the grid for two whole days. Someone needed to tell them that this was a complete overreaction to a pseudo-breakup that hadn't even managed to hit the forty-eight hour mark. Someone should tell them, not her of course, but someone. Their ungrateful asses didn't even give her a chance to gloat about how right and awesome she had been about the entire thing. She could only sigh and hope they at least remembered they both had work Monday morning. Good lord though, she really wanted to gloat.

That's why it was a bit of a godsend when Peter walked with a face looking suspiciously like hamburger meat with one of the Milkovich symbols embedded into it. This absolute idiot…she couldn't resist having a bit of a go.

"Join a fight club?" She asked flippantly, only to get fixed with a baleful glare from Peter's good eye. She raised her arms in mock surrender, "no, no, I get it. You can't talk about it. First rule of fight club, and all." She zipped her lips shut while Pete rolled his eye and stomped off to one of the darker corners of the bar.

Mandy could simply not understand why these jackasses didn't listen to her more. She'd forgotten more things than those three morons would ever know.


	2. Blond, Blues and Picnics

"So when's this goddamned picnic then?"

Ian almost nicked himself shaving when Mickey's voice floated from the shower. He rinsed out his razor and blinked as his boyfriend stepped out the shower, "what?"

"Picnic, Gallagher, when is it?" Mickey grabbed the nearest towel and roughly dried himself off, effectively distracting Ian even more as he tried to wrap his mind around what may be happening here.

"You mean the employee appreciation picnic?" Ian asked slowly, ignoring his twinge of disappointment when Mickey wrapped the towel around his waist and rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"No, Ian, the Winnie the Pooh picnic… It's Monday morning and I'm not in the mood to play twenty dumb questions with you right now," Mickey leveled Ian with an impatient look and enunciated slowly, "picnic, when is it, for fuck's sake."

"This Saturday at Prospect Park," Ian answered quickly, dabbing his face and trying to play this as coolly as possible.

"What time? Is this some early morning shit?" Mickey rubbed his thumb over his lip and tried to suppress his agitation. He focused his attention everywhere but Ian's eager, hopeful face, trying his best to keep it as cool as possible himself.

"About eleven, not so early," Ian offered cautiously as he slapped on aftershave and watched Mickey out of the corner of his eye.

"Alright, ok, ground rules: No hugging or touchy-feely shit…"

"You mean me or them?" Ian clapped his mouth shut when Mickey skewered him with a glare.

"Both! No fucking off and leaving me with a bunch of weirdoes, I reserve the right to kick the shit out of anyone who messes with me," Mickey raised a hand to quiet Ian before he could start, "although, I will try to walk away before I need to deck someone, fine?"

Ian nodded and could do nothing to stop the slow grin that was spreading across his face. Mickey snorted and stomped out the bathroom, bumping Ian roughly along the way. He was halfway to their bedroom when he was tackled to the floor, "the fuck, Gallagher!" Mickey burst out laughing in spite of himself, because Ian was peppering him everywhere with quick, staccato kisses and lightly running his fingers all over his ribcage.

"You are the best boyfriend ever," Ian breathed in between pecks to Mickey's chin, earlobe and neck. He paused long enough to look down seriously at the squirming man beneath him, "I'm going to suck your dick now, okay?"

"Come on man, you're gonna make us late," Mickey half-protested as Ian tugged off his towel and worked his way downwards.

"Hurry up and come then!" Ian garbled. Mickey could only grunt and graciously comply.

* * *

For the rest of the week, Mickey quickly learned that "picnic" was his new magic word. He only had to casually say it once and a sexual favor almost immediately followed. Mickey saw it for what it was—one part gratitude to about nine parts positive reinforcement, and fuck him if it wasn't working. He took a shaky drag of his cigarette as he watched, enchanted, as Ian went down hungrily on him while the Sox game faded into white noise on their TV. Mickey found himself almost wishing there was a picnic every week. Christ, he was whipped. He was probably going to end up on some goddamned parade float after all.

On Saturday, though, every anxiety came rushing back as he watched Ian cheerfully get dressed. He frowned as Ian hauled on a bright green polo shirt to go with his dark jeans and immediately transformed from Mickey's boyfriend into an ambitious, upwardly mobile young man on his way to a casual corporate event. Ian was such a chameleon; he fit everywhere. He had fit at the Kash and Grab, he had fit in perfectly in ROTC, and he now fit in perfectly with a bunch of white bread corporate types who couldn't last a day in the Southside. Ian fitted best inside Mickey; at least that's how the latter felt whenever they were fused together in some way. When they were fighting or fucking, there was no doubt in Mickey's mind about anything. It was only when he found himself in these in-between moments, he couldn't help but wonder if he was falling for one of the best con jobs ever—where Ian was fooling them both.

Mickey worried his lower lip and looked tiredly at his shirts, trying hopelessly to find something that didn't scream "thug," "ex-con," or "who is he trying to kid?" He was smacked in the head with some soft fabric.

"Put that on and quit stalling, douchebag."

Mickey eyed the dark green t-shirt and pulled it on, not even bothering to comment on Ian's lack of subtlety with the matching. Truth was, just for today, he didn't mind the little bit of anchoring. He fully gave up and decided to accept his fate when Ian hit him with the happiest grin possible. Mickey could only sigh, "fine, let's go."

* * *

Soon, they were on the B-train and barreling towards Prospect Park. Mickey's silence was getting stonier by the minute as every muscle in his body slowly tensed. He let Ian press close to him in their seat, shoulders, sides and thighs touching, and let his boyfriend's comforting warmth seep into him. Of course, Ian wasn't Ian unless he tested the waters more than he should. His hand skimmed along Mickey's thigh and moved to take hold of one of the clenched fists.

"No," Mickey said simply, no real heat in it. Ian sheepishly took his hand back. Holding hands in public, not there yet, got it.

The picnic itself was like something out an eighties sitcom—all sunshine and primary colored with people seemingly laughing for no goddamned reason. It was Mickey's worst nightmare. Before he could figure out a manly, non-cowardly way of turning tail and running, Ian was guiding him to his first trial, Elizabeth Murray, Ian's boss.

"Mickey, Liz. Liz, Mickey,"

Liz looked at Mickey as if she's just discovered fire, "**this** is the infamous Mickey? Oh my word, I've heard so much about you!"

Liz's voice was steadily rising in octave and it was making Mickey squirrely. His eyes widened as the woman seemed to advance on him and he sent a panicked look Ian's way.

"I love Ian like a son, and anyone who can make him as happy as you obviously do has to be a good egg. He practically glows whenever he talks about you!" She moved to shake his hand and seemed to change her mind mid-gesture, "oh what am I doing? Come here!" That's when it happened—the hug.

Mickey almost squeaked as Liz squeezed him to her and even jiggled a bit. The only thing saving him at that moment was that Liz somehow put him in the mind of Batshit Sheila from the old neighborhood. The thought oddly calmed him down enough for him to endure the hug, thought he sent a gaping, apologetic looking Ian death glares over Liz's shoulder. Ian finally managed to extract him, only to end up piloting him from one painful slice of white bread to another. They were all trying painfully hard to appear hip, open-minded and accepting, which led to some truly cringe-worthy moments. The CFO threw up nonexistent gang signs at him, several people tried to fist-bump him. Mickey was going to die.

It was at this point Ian broke one of the cardinal rules: he fucked off to god knows where and left Mickey to flounder among the Woodstock rejects. To be fair, Liz had dragged Ian away so he could help with some supplies, but it was still a serious breach of the rules. While Mickey glanced around, trying to orient himself and edge towards the nearest park exit, he received a little unexpected company.

"So, you're Mickey, huh?" The girl was kind of a stunner, if a bit of a boilerplate beauty. Long, golden blonde hair, bright blue eyes and a cherry smile, "I'm Trish, customer services."

They all did that shit; stated their name and job title like they were freaking POWs. Mickey didn't quite know what to make of this one. He wracked his brain a bit, trying to remember if Ian had ever mentioned a Trish during one of his nightly decompressing sessions where Ian would talk until Mickey finally snapped and jammed something in the redhead's mouth. Was Trish one of the office mean girls or one of the airheads?

"You've done time right?" Holy shit that was direct. Mickey raised an eyebrow at her and fished for his first cigarette of the day. Fuck it, he was long overdue. She watched riveted as he ignored her for a while to light up before seething out a billow of smoke.

"What the fuck is it to you?"

Mickey wouldn't have known it, but Trish's panties had just melted right off. She laughed and gave a small toss of her head before giving a light shrug, "just making conversation," she toyed with her silver necklace a bit before going for gold. "So, do you only fuck guys or are you an equal opportunity banger?"

Oh god, Corporate Barbie wanted to fuck him; bad boy complex, Mickey guesses. This is quite possibly the funniest thing ever and Mickey can't help but burst out laughing. Trish had no idea if this should be taken as encouragement or not, but she soldiered on determinedly, "you have an amazing sm-"

"Trish, what the fuck are you doing?" Ian had managed to materialize while Mickey tried his best not to piss himself.

"I was trying to have a conversation," she replied sassily, clearly trying not to let on that Ian's sudden appearance rattled her a bit, "what's your problem, Opie?"

This set Mickey off again and earned him a green-eyed glare. "Listen trash, ahem, Trish," ooh, so that's who that was then. Trashy Trish and her pretty bitch antics drove the whole office crazy. She was hands-down Mickey's favorite hell-raiser. He leaned around Ian and grinned at her in appreciation. "Mickey has a sister who won't even require a reason when I ask her to curb stomp you."

Trish only snorted and smirked at Mickey, mouthing "call me," before giving another toss of her pretty head and sashaying away. Mickey was still smiling when Ian rounded on him, "what?" Mickey asked innocently. Ian's mouth opened and closed ineffectually, "come on, idiot, help us set up."

* * *

Two hours in and Mickey was reeling. He had never been around so many forcefully cheerful people in his life. They tried, he can't say that they didn't, but the condescension and class distance were slowly starting to creep in while he choked down a Liz-crafted tofu burger (on Liz's insistence that you couldn't tell they weren't meat…you totally could) and pissy tasting imported beer. Ian had fucked off again, just when one of the company's accountants who had been jawing at him for about ten minutes finally sneered about Mickey's tenuous grasp on current events. Remembering his promise to walk away before hitting, Mickey inhaled and headed for the closest copse of trees before he could commit a very public felony.

He sighed as he inhaled the biting smoke and tried to relax a little. He finally spotted Ian a short distance off, deep in conversation with a few of his coworkers.

"Hey, can I bum one of those off you?" A dirty blond about Ian's height and build came up to him looking desperate for a smoke. Mickey shrugged and tapped the box and the man took the cigarette gratefully. "Fucking job picnics, man…every damn year. They look like something out of the goddamn Brady Bunch."

Mickey raised his eyebrows at that. The newcomer was clad in a grey shirt and black jeans, and Mickey was under the impression that all employees were required to dress as if they were a part of Joseph's amazing Technicolor dream-coat. "**You** work with these people?"

The guy seemed to understand his confusion. "Janitorial," he offered simply, "there's a few of us here. Admin feels too guilty to not invite ancillary, but the smart ones stay home anyway. Me? Not so smart."

Mickey grunted his agreement on that and the guy grinned around his cigarette. He eyed Mickey for a bit before discovering the wonder that was the brunet's finger tattoos. "Fuck U-Up, huh? Damn," the guy laughed as Mickey dragged on his cigarette.

"You think my tats are a joke?" Mickey's defenses and menace levels immediately went up a few notches.

"Chill, Pesci, I was admiring. Only tats I see around here are flowery tramp stamps and Chinese symbols that probably mean 'bread' or some shit."

Mickey snorted but relaxed a bit, not registering the chatty newcomer as a threat even though the man's eyes never left him.

"I'm Jeremy by the way."

"Mick…"

"So who dragged you here?"

Mickey nodded towards Ian's little group and Jeremy's eyes narrowed as he shifted through them. "The redhead?" That surprised Mickey a little as he figured the guy would assume it was one of the girls in the group and leave it at that. Still, Mickey hesitated a second before nodding stiffly.

"Yeah, I've seen him around, seems like a cool enough guy. He doesn't linger around the office like some of the other admin losers. Guess he's one of the few going home to something good, huh?"

"Damn straight…" Mickey thought to himself as he looked over to Ian's group again. This time it was to see Ian looking back over at him and new smoking buddy, his expression inscrutable across the distance. "Why the hell would anybody want to linger around these people?"

"You'd be surprised," Jeremy said as he pushed off his tree to stand next to Mickey, while being careful not to wander too closely. "Take them for instance," Jeremy nodded to a group of two men and two women lost in animated conversation, "stay late almost every day. Me and the guys thought they were group fucking or something. We had a whole sting operation to catch them in the act; turns out they just had a super intense scrabble group going. I almost fucking cried at the disappointment, man. Was gonna livestream that shit."

Second funniest thing he'd heard in the last few hours and Mickey couldn't help but laugh again. Jeremy grinned and chanced leaning against Mickey's tree, about to unload all the delicious dirt only a member of a janitorial staff could unearth. Before he could though, a tall, intense looking redhead showed up.

"Hey," Ian said softly as he came to a stop before Mickey, "you disappeared on me."

"You disappeared on me, firecrotch," Mickey muttered, feeling stupidly better about life in general now that Ian was within arm's reach, "ground rules remember?"

"At least you're not lonely, right?" Ian looked over at the watchful Jeremy and gave him the most humorless smile imaginable, "Jason, right?"

"Jeremy, but at least you're in the neighborhood," the blond responded dryly.

Ian didn't even bother to respond, opting instead to turn back to Mickey and hook a finger in the empty belt-loop at his boyfriend's hip. He ignored Mickey's pointed look of "what the fuck?" at the possessive intimacy and smilingly informed him that the proper burgers with real meat were now available. "I know you're hungry, let's go," Ian stated as he tugged at a quickly relenting Mickey.

"Hey man, thanks for the smoke," Jeremy said lightly before Ian could storm off with Mickey in tow. He nodded to a few ancillary staff dotting the periphery of the picnic, "come find us if you wanna join the Dark Side. We got greasy food and some good weed." That caught Mick's attention and earned Jeremy a nod and a grin before Ian hauled Mickey off to the barbeque section.

* * *

Allegedly, there were people having fun at this picnic. Mickey wouldn't know anything about that. He was this close to death by boredom and was stuck in what had to be some kind of world record for insufferable corporate outings. He sat at a park table with Ian who was in turn stuck listening to his immediate supervisor philosophize drunkenly about the human condition. These dudes couldn't hold their beer for shit.

"A few of us wanted to know if any of you fine gentlemen would be interested in some touch football, ancillary versus admin, round off the day," Jeremy sauntered up before looking doubtfully around the group, "some of us aren't so sure you guys are up for it though."

Fighting words for a bunch of soft idiots too drunk to know better. Jeremy wasted no time in corralling Mickey, "we want to do a proper six-a-side, but ancillary's short a volunteer. You're not scared of a little blood, sweat and dirt right?"

"Fuck no," Mickey was already up and ready to go, oblivious to the drama in the making. Any excuse to knock some of these windbags on their asses a bit could not be passed up.

* * *

The game was on after everyone switched out their shirts for company ones, though Jeremy was firmly in favor of shirts versus skins. The women playing on both teams quickly vetoed that idea. Mickey sized up the members of his red-shirted ancillary team: 4 guys and two girls, with only one of the guys being potential deadweight. Ian's blue-shirted team only really had three that looked like they could run for five minutes without having a heart attack, and one of them was Trish who definitely hadn't volunteered for the love of the game. Mickey grinned and raised an eyebrow at her as she tied her hair back into a bun and growled at him. This was going to be a bloodbath.

"Cute, but you're going down, Blondie" Mickey clicked his tongue as Trish went about turning her mascara into war paint.

"Yeah, that a promise?" Any cheeky response Mickey hoped to give died at the intense glare Ian sent his way. Mickey could only cough and slink his way over to Jeremy and the rest of his team, which only turned the glare into a full on scowl. The Red team strategy was simply, "run them into the ground, they ain't shit." Fifteen minutes into the game, it was coming off as the most effective strategy ever.

Ian hated everyone and everything. They were getting creamed. Half his team was rolling on the grass wheezing and praying for death. Trish was a speed demon, but seemed interested in only the touch aspect of the game and completely dismissive of the football part. She was completely focused on chasing Mickey about, whether or not he had possession of the ball, and his faithless slut of a boyfriend was doing nothing to discourage it. Jeremy, though, was the truly galling part of the whole thing. Every time the red team scored a touchdown, at the rate of about one every three minutes, the janitor would engage in some of the most physical displays of celebration ever seen outside of football porn. Ian's mood continued to deteriorate rapidly, so when the gods were kind and gave Jeremy possession of the ball in the final play, Ian went after him like a heat-seeking missile. If the hard shoulder slamming into his gut at full speed hadn't been enough to incapacitate Jeremy, Ian lifting and body slamming him into the unforgiving earth did the trick.

"Touched you," Ian said mildly as he retrieved the ball and stepped over his flattened adversary. Mickey soon came over to look down at Jeremy inquisitively as the man struggled to clear his vision and fight air into his collapsed lungs.

"Shit man, that looked kinda rough," sometimes Mickey had a flare for understatement, "you good?" Jeremy could only blink slowly and try not to sob. "Yeah, you're good," Mickey reassured him before grabbing Jeremy's hand and hauling the shattered man to his feet, "walk it off."

* * *

They were finally winding down. Mickey figured it could have been worse; he had survived the day without significant incident, he hadn't cost Ian his job and the police didn't have to be summoned on his account. Maybe he could take the day as one for the win column. He went back to his tree to wait and decompress while Ian did the Boy Scout thing and helped pack things away and cleaned up.

Mickey was lighting up a cigarette when Jeremy appeared at his side yet again, probably to say goodbye or something. He was totally unprepared for the warm hard closing intimately over his own as Jeremy wordlessly leaned forward, blue eyes never leaving blue, and slowly lit his own cigarette of Mickey's flame. The brunet's brain immediately stalled out in shock and disbelief.

Mickey Milkovich was not stupid, quite the opposite really, but above everything else, he was street smart. He knew how to read situations, read people, figure out what was coming so he could keep ahead or on top of it. But there were some things so far outside the realm of reason that it's impossible to process. He had picked it up with Trish immediately, after all nothing wrong or weird about a sexually aggressive woman going for it. She had been easy to read and understand, and it hadn't discomfited Mickey in the slightest.

What Jeremy was doing, though, was unthinkable to Mickey. They weren't at any of the dive bars that the rough, closet cases frequented. They weren't at any of the designated park bathrooms, dark alleyways or cheap hotels that were Mickey's reality before Ian and his tire iron came along and erased all that. Jeremy's touching and teasing and blatant flirting hadn't registered. The man's bosses and coworkers were only yards away, there were kids playing in the sunshine and really nowhere to hide. Mickey was hopelessly in love and it had still taken every ounce of his courage to do this for Ian. He couldn't help but wonder that if it weren't for Terry Milkovich and the oppression of the Southside, if he and Jeremy would be one in the same.

"I'm gonna guess Red is the first real relationship you've ever been in," Jeremy spoke softly, still pressing far too close to a stalled-out Mickey, "you don't ever wonder what else is out there?"

Mickey could only blink and when he opened his eyes, Jeremy wasn't there anymore. Instead all he saw was a red and green blur as Ian swooped in like some kind of cock-blocking superhero.

"The fuck you think you're doing?" Ian snarled as Jeremy went crashing back against a tree. Ian went to his knees and started wailing away as the blond failed miserably to build his own surge.

Mickey looked on blankly, still in the process of rebooting. Jeremy finally managed to duck and cover enough to get under Ian's fists and charge into him. He quickly climbed onto Ian and actually managed to get in a couple hard hits to Ian's face. This is precisely what was needed to snap Mickey awake.

"Yo, get the fuck off him!" Mickey's concern was sweet but wholly unnecessary. If Jeremy thought he had any hope against ROTC-trained, ex-army Southside urchin, he was sorely mistaken. Mickey moved to haul Jeremy back, only to be interrupted by the squeal of a little girl who had stumbled onto the carnage to retrieve her runaway ball. She quickly scampered off to tattle, while Ian delivered a hard elbow to Jeremy's nose and resumed pummeling him into a pulp.

"Shit," Mickey hissed as he watched the little girl run off. Kids are the absolute worst. He quickly ran over to yank a relentless Ian off, "Jesus Gallagher, your boss is probably going to turn up any minute now." He finally managed to pull his raging boyfriend off and shoved him off to the side. "Ian!" Mickey snapped to get Ian to break off from glaring down Jeremy's crumpled body, "just fuck off for a sec." Mickey glanced around and jogged back over to Jeremy.

"Mickey…" Ian's growled warning was summarily ignored as Mickey squatted down next to the moaning blond. "Mickey, I swear to God." Ian's rage and hurt that Mickey would ignore him to tend to someone who was basically a stranger gave his voice a tight edge. Mickey only looked back at him with a pointed look that said both "are you kidding me?" and "shut the fuck up" in one go.

"Hey man, you okay?" Mickey grimaced a bit at Jeremy's badly bleeding nose and busted lip, "look, I'm going to need you to take the fall for this if it comes down to it."

Jeremy's broken face attempted to contort into something passing for incredulity, "are you kidding me?!" he spat, "your super-sized Chucky doll over there attacked me!"

This day had been an absolute gold mine for redhead jokes. "Yeah, but dude, you did kinda have it coming, right?" Mickey got the impression that Jeremy wasn't exactly about to agree and he could see the corporate dickheads finally heading over. "Look, you don't get Ian in trouble and I won't have to gut you like a fish," Mickey said simply. Jeremy gaped, shocked but fully believing that Mickey would make good on his threat. "Hey man," Mickey shrugged in half-hearted apology before backing away from Jeremy, "I didn't get these tattoos for my health."

"Jeremy, what's going on here?" Liz came huffing over, eyes swinging from Jeremy to Mickey and back again. It was Mickey who answered.

"Yankees/Sox debate got a little heated. Things may have gotten a little out of hand. No harm, no foul though, right Jer?" Mickey asked lightly, subtly using his right thumb to crack the knuckles of his right hand."

Jeremy nodded quickly, bloodying his shirt badly as he tried to clean his face and staunch the flow from his nose. Liz blanched a bit and glanced uncertainly between the two, completely ignoring Ian.

"Look, Mickey, Jeremy, this is not the way we do things. We will not tolerate any form of violence here."

Ian's mouth dropped, stunned and beyond pissed that they were willing to pile blame on Mickey when he had nothing to do with it. The way Ian had been standing had been inadvertently hiding the blooming black-eye, and Mickey stopped him from moving and pinched him hard to stop him from saying anything.

"Sorry," Mickey mumbled and gave a hangdog smile. This he had anticipated and this he understood. If being who he was could keep Ian out of trouble, he didn't mind at all. "Take the boy out of Southside, right?"

Liz sniffed and eyed him and Jeremy again before nodding vaguely, "it's been so nice meeting you, Mickey; I'd rather such unpleasantness never happen again."

"Yeah, of course, sorry again, we're just going to head home if that's okay," Mickey grinned irrepressibly as he dragged Ian away, still careful to keep the shiner out of Liz's view. Mickey paused over Jeremy briefly before Ian hauled him off, "sorry man, you can't compete with the Sox."

* * *

Ian was coiled as tightly as a rattlesnake on the train ride home. His leg bounced agitatedly against the train floor and glowered at everything and everyone in proximity. Mickey was trying his best to keep his grin under control in deference to Ian's black mood. He attempted conversation once and it had not gone over well.

"So, these picnics really an annual thing or what? When's the next one?"

If looks could kill, Mickey would have been nothing but a bloody smear against the train doors. Mickey had grinned, raised his hands in mock surrender and had fallen back into silence. He could feel the tension and crazed energy radiating off his boyfriend. He glanced surreptitiously around the train and made sure there was no one close by. Satisfied, Mickey ghosted his hand over Ian's thigh and rubbed a thumb over Ian's clenched fist. Surprise broke over Ian's features and he slowly opened his fist, allowingMickey to slip his fingers in-between his. The look on Ian's face made the whole thing worth it immediately. Plus, it felt kind of nice, okay, kind of amazing, holding his boyfriend's hand. Clearly this was Ian's mission in life, to make Mickey regret not giving into sappy shit that much sooner.

Ian stared at their interlocked fingers in wonder and he used his thumb to slowly stroke along Mickey's knuckle. "I'm still going to destroy you when we get home though," Ian whispered softly and Mickey's pants tightened immediately. Of course, Ian simply had to test his new boundaries, "wanna make out a little?"

"Kiss me and I'll rip your fucking tongue out," Mickey muttered as he slouched down into the hard seats of the subway train. Making out in public, not there yet, got it.

There was a bit of a tense moment when the train doors open and a gaggle of teen girls blew in. Mickey's knee-jerk reaction was to pull away, but he fought against it, even while Ian was tightening his grip, knowing his boyfriend's tendency to bolt. The girls eyed them and whispered, giggling a bit and the words "so cute" floated over amongst the giggling and peeking. Mickey smirked to himself and kept his eyes trained on the flashing lights and swirling darkness, feeling bulletproof in a way only Ian could make possible.

* * *

The handholding ended when they got off their stop and the walk home was quiet. Ian seemed to have mellowed out during the train ride and Mickey didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. He kept his thoughts to himself though, unlocking the door and stepping into their apartment ahead of Ian.

"We need to get some more ice of that eye of yours, fire-" Mickey's words were cut off when Ian grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked him back viciously. The man's backwards momentum was used to propel him past the side-stepping redhead and to slam the door shut. It was more shocking than painful for Mickey, being slammed against the door like that, but he quickly recovered and came back snarling. "The fuck, Gallagher?!"

Ian shoved him back against the door and plastered his body to Mickey's, mashing their lips together and cutting off all swearing and protests. The kiss grew rougher and more frantic as Ian fisted his hands into his boyfriend's t-shirt, trying to tug him closer. He ground hard against Mickey, biting down on the brunet's bottom lip, before finally breaking the kiss and going after his neck.

"Shit," Mickey hissed as Ian bit down at the base of his neck and began to suck eagerly. He tugged ineffectually at the ginger's polo shirt, trying to determine how to get it off without them having to break apart. Ian licked up his neck, coming to suck on Mickey's earlobe, all the while thrusting hard against him and reaching back to squeeze Mickey's ass. The brunet gave a ragged moan, getting completely swept up, and then suddenly, there was nothing. Ian abruptly stepped away leaving Mickey confused and bereft. He could only gape as his boyfriend stepped away, snorted rudely and stalked off into their bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him. So, definitely not mellowed out then…

This had probably been one of the most mentally taxing days for Mickey ever. He blinked confusedly for a bit, still leaning against their front door, trying to catch his breath. He was almost painfully hard and he was for the moment entirely unsure how he was supposed to address the problem. He eyed the bedroom door, worried his lower lip for a bit, decided "fuck it," and went to gingerly open the door and step inside. Ian's shirt and socks were already tossed off and the redhead was pulling off his pants and boxers. He pinned an ogling Mickey with a look, "get naked."

Mickey made a soft noise of acquiescence and stripped off his clothes in record time. By the time he was done, Ian was sitting on the edge of the bed, legs spread, giving himself slow strokes as he had watched Mickey pretty much shudder out of his clothes, "blow me."

Two word limit Ian was a whole new creature and Mickey's brain didn't know whether to be terrified or turned on. Mickey's dick, on the other hand, knew exactly what side of the fence it was on, and was now running the show. He sank to his knees and stroked Ian to full hardness before swallowing him down to the base. Ian's sharp, stuttering breaths were sweet reassurances to Mickey that they had not fallen completely into the twilight zone. He hummed as long fingers twisted in his hair and Ian grew more vocal. He sucked Ian fast and eagerly, his mind replaying the earlier fight like a favored scene from a movie. Fuck it had been hot. It only made Mickey's own throbbing arousal even more unbearable and he reached down to give himself some well needed relief.

"Don't," Ian ordered simply, and Mickey's eyes flicked up and locked on Ian's flushed, lust-torn face. The redhead leaned up to swipe the lube from the night table and dropped it before Mickey. "You want to touch yourself so bad—prep…you're going to need it."

"Jesus," Mickey groaned to himself, almost completely out of his mind. He quickly squirted out some of the lube onto his fingers and quickly went to work preparing himself. He never broke eye-contact with Ian, flicking his tongue over the weeping slit of Ian's cock and watching the green eyes getting darker and darker and Ian's breathing growing more ragged.

"Enough," Ian grunted and reached down to haul Mickey onto the bed to lay alongside him. He braced one arm above Mickey, while the other circled his throat, tilting the brunet's head up so Ian could savage his mouth again. Mickey's hands automatically went up to run through Ian's hair, always trying to find some purchase there. Ian's hand worked its way from his lover's throat down to his dick, moving to pump him hard and fast. Mickey's head fell back with a strangled groan.

"You like that?" Ian's voice was low and rough as his hand blurred on Mickey's cock, "think anyone else can do this to you?"

Ian was as transparent as Saran wrap; even in Mickey's orgasmic haze, he knew exactly what this was about. He came hard into Ian's hand, yelling his lover's name into the stillness of the room. He sagged against the bed, feeling his heart threatening to slam right out of his chest. He bit his lip, trying to suppress the maniacal grin. "You talking about Jeremy?" He asked with maddening faux-innocence.

Ian's face darkened and his grip on Mickey's penis tightened menacingly. "You say his name to me again and I will rip your dick off and shove it down your throat."

"Scary, scary firecrotch," Mickey's tongue flicked out and trailed his bottom lip, pulling Ian's gaze, "I guess I'll just have to stop saying 'Jeremy' then." Mickey couldn't help laughing a little at Ian's growl. The laughter choked off when Ian deftly rolled him onto his stomach, straddled and unceremoniously thrust into him. "Oh shit…" Mick exhaled sharply, not even managing to catch a breath before his ginger pulled away only to slam back into him. "Oh shit!" Mickey gasped again and twisted his hands into the sheets as Ian started pounding into him. They lay diagonally across the bed, their pillows that had been somewhere at their feet getting rocked and kicked off to the floor. Mickey wished he had nabbed one since the twisted sheets and mattress were doing nothing to muffle the embarrassing amount of noise he was making.

"Oh fuck, Gallagher!" Mickey burst out when Ian yanked his head up by his hair, forcing him to look at their reflection in the mirrored doors of their closet. "Fucking hell," he stuttered out, not even able to cringe at the shattered, needy look on his own face as he watched Ian fuck the shit out of him. Ian's black eye and victorious smirk came off as the hottest thing alive. The power and speed of Ian's thrusts increased mercilessly as he drilled his lover into their protesting bed. Ian let his full weight rest on Mickey so he could dip his bite and suck everywhere his teeth and lips could reach. "Mine," Ian growled, and Mickey was now fully convinced that there was a God—a great and merciful one who was allowing Mickey to die in the best way possible.

"Ian, please," Mickey whined as he rutted helplessly against the sheets, desperate for some friction against his dripping cock. Ian shoved a hand under Mickey and yanked him back until they were both kneeling upright in bed; Mickey's back flush against Ian's chest. The redhead reached down and stroked Mickey's dick in matching tempo to his thrusts. Mick almost wept in relief. His head lolled back against Ian's shoulder and he stared up to find Ian looking back at him, heated and unblinking. Mickey reached up and tugged his boyfriend's head down, pulling him in for another biting kiss.

Ian was close, shit, they both were. Between the way Mickey was looking at him and the feel of the tight, wet heat squeezing and convulsing around him, he knew he didn't have a prayer of going much longer. "Whose is this?" Ian demanded hotly into Mickey's ear as he swiped a thumb across slit. Mick was going to take the piss out of him for that bit of possessive lameness once their brains stopped leaking out their ears, but for the moment, Mickey's eyes only fluttered closed as Ian's voice sent sparks straight down his spine. "Whose is this?" Ian grunted desperately, his strokes falling out of tempo with his thrusts as his orgasm rushed up.

"Yours, fuck, Ian!" Mickey's shout filled the room as he came into Ian's hand for a second time.

"Fucking right," Ian gasped, riding out his own orgasm as Mickey milked him for all he had.

* * *

"Goddamn, Gallagher," Mickey said later when they had finally regained the power of speech and movement, "why can't I remember to piss you off more often?"

The last time Ian had went at him like that was probably at Mickey's wedding, though he wasn't dumb enough to bring that up any more. He was going to be sore tomorrow, but fuck if it wasn't worth it. "'Whose is this?' You are so fucking lame sometimes." He lit up a cigarette and took a slow drag, basking in afterglow and loving the shit out of life.

Ian didn't say anything, just watched as Mickey smiled to himself and took a long drag off his cigarette. Jesus, the dickhead was beautiful. Ian stared as Mick's blew out the cloud of smoke, lips raw and blue eyes still bright against the fading light of dusk. He raised the cigarette to his lips again, and his biceps bulged and defined themselves. Ian eyes moved to the slow rise and fall of Mick's chest, the abdominal muscles that clenched under Ian's touch, down his dick to the powerful thigh muscles and the short legs that Ian always teased him about.

Ian turned back to stare at the ceiling, feeling the gnawing beginnings of panic in this stomach. He had had enough to worry about with how skittish Mickey was about being in a relationship. Keeping his lover from bolting at any random moment took so much brain power sometimes, it was crazy. Now, clearly he was going to have to add agonizing over random sluts throwing themselves at his boyfriend when he wasn't about. Jesus, Mickey worked construction—it was all bulging muscle and sweat soaked shirts and horny bastards scratching their nuts and eyeing Mickey's ass.

How many times was Mickey hit on, on a daily basis? How many Trishes and Jeremies were there? How long before Mickey grew comfortable enough with the acceptance of his sexuality before he grew tired of Ian and the confines of their relationship, and ditched him to explore what was out there? How many people was Ian going to have to kill with his army training?! His descent into madness was cut off by Mickey rolling over and nuzzling him, probably trying to get him going again.

"Did you like it?" Ian asked finally, unable to think about anything else.

"The fucking? A+ superstar," Mickey gave him a lopsided grin and leaned down to lick at his nipples.

"No, I mean, at the picnic, with trash and the janitor…"

Mickey raised his eyebrows and stared down at Ian's sincere eyes and grimly downturned mouth and knew exactly what was happening—the beginnings of a serious conversation.

"No, no, no! No conversation right now. Damn it, Gallagher, why do you always go off script?" Mickey huffed as he rolled off a bemused Ian.

"What script?"

"This is simple, firecrotch. Some dude tries to interfere, we pound the shit out of him, it gets us hot, we go somewhere private, you pound the shit out of me. No need for deep conversations or examination of feelings—just violence and animal fucking. Done!"

"You mean like what happened with Ned?"

Mickey rolled his eyes at the mention of Dr. Lishman, but nodded stiffly, "fine, that works. Did you see me asking you a bunch of lame questions about it?"

"Um, yes you did. Only it was before you beat the crap out of him because you got jealous."

Mickey snorted rudely and shimmied off the bed, "Like hell I was jealous. I handed his ass to him because he disrespected me."

It was Ian's turn to snort as he scooted forward to sit on the edge of the bed and watched Mickey root around for boxers. "You followed us all the way to the North side, but you weren't jealous, huh? Right…and how exactly did he disrespect you? By suggesting you were gay and that I was your boyfriend?"

"Yep."

"You have my come leaking out your ass!" Ian let out exasperatedly, only for Mickey to raise his eyebrows at him.

"I wasn't disputing the accuracy of what he said, just his inappropriate timing and familiarity," Mickey sassed, "He didn't know me like that!"

"Ugh!" Ian flopped back onto the bed and pouted while Mickey padded out to the kitchen. He didn't know how Mickey managed to derail or wiggle out of these conversations sometimes, but it was maddening. Before he could settle into his pouting, something cold slapped over his eye causing him to grunt in shock.

"Let's make sure you get rid of that shiner before Monday," Mickey grinned down at the familiar sight of frozen green peas, black eyes and red hair. "Can't have you tarnishing your golden boy status."

Ian looked up at him for a minute before reaching for his hand and yanking Mickey down next to him. "Don't smile at anyone else, asshole. Your smile is mine, your cock is mine, your ass too…everything."

"Jawohl, mein Fuhrer," Mickey couldn't stop grinning. He leaned over and adjusted the peas a bit before laying on his stomach, flush against Ian.

"I'm serious," Ian grumped before going quiet for a bit, "you're going to get tired of me one day, aren't you?"

"Fuck that, I've been tired of your ass for about six years—still here ain't I?"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah…"

"You're not allowed to upgrade and leave me, either. I don't care how many hot blond dicks are out there," the uncertain edge to Ian's voice let Mickey know just how serious and anxious his boyfriend was being. He would have laughed out loud at the insane irony if his heart wasn't busy squeezing painfully in his chest, because these were Mickey's worries, the things that kept an undereducated ex-con up at night. Ian was crazy to even think like that, because honestly, who could walk away from him? So in response, Mickey simply rolled his eyes and snorted, "Calm your tits, sad clown. You're it for me. You're never getting rid of my ass."

"Yeah?" Ian slow grin beneath, half obscured by frozen peas, was the stuff dreams were made of.

"Yeah…"


End file.
